


Dead Man Walking

by K_T_Tara



Series: The Script [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Mycroft Feels, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Sherlock's Funeral, Why am i so mean to mycroft, mycroft totally ships it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 17:46:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6088770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_T_Tara/pseuds/K_T_Tara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oh Molly, if only she knew that if she'd asked for 221B Baker Street, he would've let her have it. (Instead, she only asked for his violin.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dead Man Walking

Mycroft Holmes had always known that Molly Hooper harbored a bit of an infatuation with his brother. Part of the reason why he employed her to spy on –sorry, _keep an eye on_ \- Sherlock. It had taken Sherlock a few years what had taken Mycroft only minutes, to figure out Molly’s feelings, and sure enough the Holmes’ man used it to his advantage. Many times, unrepentantly, with little regard for her. And still she let him, let both of them, take advantage of her feelings, with little to no complaints. A perfect spy for Mycroft, and a perfect pathologist for Sherlock.

Yet not even Mycroft could understand the depth of those affections she held for his brother… until Sherlock died.

"Molly, really, you don’t need to-" Mike Stamford pleaded with the woman who was hell bent on entering her own morgue. Molly was having none of it. "Let me in, Mike," she ordered –ordered! Never in all his years knowing her had had had Mycroft heard her use such an authoritative tone- her friend, who stood in front of the door to the morgue. Within those doors, they all knew what would be waiting, and Mike was _determined_ to not let them in. Or at least, Molly. "Please," she added in a softer tone, as if that would make the rotund man move aside.

"I can have another doctor do it," Mike offered, his quivering lip and wide bright eyes revealing his growing desperation; Molly was determined and he wasn’t sure if he could hold her off forever. "Another pathologist," he suggested," You don’t…you don’t have to…" _‘Do Sherlock’s autopsy’_ was the unfinished end to that sentence. This early on, it was still hard to even speak it. In fact, even Mycroft felt something… sour lodging in his throat, and he didn’t dare speak for fear of his voice giving it away.

The only person who seemed at all strong in this situation was Molly… How on Earth was _Molly_ keeping it together better than he? Mousy little Molly...

"I promised, Mike," she said softly, shuffling feet and clasping hands the only outwards signs of her nervousness," If…If anything ever happened to him, that I would be…" And Mycroft fully believed her. She was always the only pathologist Sherlock trusted –the only _woman_ he trusted, Mycroft later realized- and if anything happened to him, Molly would be the only one he’d trust not to botch the autopsy.

Then again, Mycroft never thought she’d actually have to do it.

Once Mike ambled away, probably to go help deter the reporters outside from getting inside the hospital, they were left to face the still closed morgue doors. Only Mycroft and Molly now. She now turned to him, and though he was expecting it, Mycroft had a hard time meeting her red lined eyes. The tears were being held back, but barely. And he did so ever hate having to deal with crying women. "You umm…" she mumbled, all her sense of bravado vanishing along with Mike Stamford," I can… I can identify the body myself," her voice cracked on the word ‘body’," You don’t need to see him like this."

Oh Sherlock _really_ didn’t deserve this woman, he thought even as he shook his head. "I’m afraid only a family member can legally identify the body," he informed her," But thank you for your consideration."

She nodded numbly and turned around to open the doors, Mycroft close on her heels. Not that she wore heels; Molly was always sensible in her footwear. The morgue was bright and empty, as it was meant to be. And in the center of the room… on a metal slab… was his little brother’s body.

If it wasn’t for the blood still covering half his face, it would almost look like he was just asleep. Of course, that was if Mycroft didn’t know that his brother slept like a ragdoll, throwing his arms and legs every which way. And of the course, there was the _blood_ , and the… the deadly pale pallor to his face.

Sherlock was in the exact condition he was when they picked him up off the pavement. Hair still matted with blood, scraped and bruises marring one side of his face and bleeding no more because the heart had stopped beating, and his beloved Belstaff coat covering most of him. He hadn’t even made it to a hospital room, where a nurse would’ve cleaned him up. Mycroft jolted when he realized Sherlock must’ve been announced dead on the spot, right there on the sidewalk, and that was why he was in this state. Why he was brought straight to the morgue, awaiting a proper autopsy done by his most trusted pathologist.

Molly walked around the operation table and approached Sherlock’s other side, but Mycroft couldn’t force himself to even approach the metal slab. That was his _brother_! Bloody, and quiet –oh god, when was Sherlock _ever_ quiet- and pale, and…

Dead.

Perhaps he should’ve listened to Molly and waited outside. Still, there was no mistaking it. "That’s him," he announced quietly; he’d know his brother’s face anywhere. Even on a metal slab in a morgue.

"I’ll… uhh, I’ll take care of him. I promise," Molly reassured. He was sure she would. After all, she loved his brother. "I wouldn’t trust anyone else with this, Dr. Hooper," he said, and watched her turn bright crimson. It was so reminiscent of earlier days, the fact that even here and now she had trouble accepting a genuine compliment –which coincidentally was all Sherlock’s fault, no doubt- that it almost made Mycroft crack a smile.

Oh well, while he was here admitting just how invaluable she’d been all these years with helping Sherlock, he might as well go all in. It would all be in a very Sherlock sort of style; she’d appreciate that. And really, didn’t he owe it to his younger sibling? "I know Sherlock knew about the payments," he almost (almost, mind you) blurted out –because he is a Holmes’ man and he never _blurts_ \- and said," And I know you split them with him."

Her eyes widened almost comically, but he just continued," I suspect that… from now on… we will not have much, if any, contact. I just thought you should know." A small wry smile formed on his face. "I _always_ knew, Miss Hooper. But you were most helpful in keeping an eye on him," then he frowned," Of course, we don’t want to forget The Incident." The Incident being one particularly horrifying night in which Molly was witness to a high Sherlock, and having no idea what to do, she’d called Mycroft in a panic.

"The point I’m trying to make is," he sighed," If you’d like, I would be willing to continue your compensation. At least until the amount of which went to my brother is made up to you."

‘What?’ was so clearly printed on her face, as Molly blinked rapidly. She was probably going to voice her confusion, but he wasn’t willing to give her the chance. With one last glance at his dead brother (‘It’ll get easier, it’ll get easier,’ he told himself, even if he knew it was all a lie) Mycroft spun on his heels and marched right out of the morgue.

He walked away so fast that he never heard her breathe out," Oh Sherlock, what have we done?"

………

After Molly did Sherlock’s autopsy, she did Moriarty’s. It wasn’t being released to the press yet, the suicide of Richard Brook AKA James Moriarty by eating a lead bullet. Mycroft also had it from a reliable source that once she was done with his autopsy, she burned the body. Not personally of course, that would be a bit too much Winchester, but it had somehow made its way to the top of the cremation list.

(And there were rumors that she stood and watched the body being put into the cremation oven, and waited until the warm ashes were then taken out.) When asked about it, her answer was that she’d only sleep at night if Jim Moriarty was wiped from the face of the Earth.

When it came to Sherlock’s body, while many thought he’d willed his body to be used for scientific purposes, Molly also had his body cremated. When others questioned her decision, she produced a small written letter, in Sherlock’s own writing with her and some illegible signature (probably one of his homeless network) as witness. It was a makeshift will, Mycroft recognized. "When?" he asked," When did Sherlock make this? When did he decide to suddenly make a new will?" And why hadn’t Mycroft known about it?

Until Molly pointed to the date on the top.

Oh… it had been recent. Really recent. Recent, as in, almost around the same time those bombings from Moriarty had threatened half of London. Not only had his end of life plans been changed, but Sherlock had changed-

Mycroft gulped; Sherlock had changed his will to incorporate John Watson…

Molly shrugged," We just kept forgetting to send it to you."

……

Planning the funeral was absolute hell, and many time Mycroft cursed his brother’s ridiculously short will. If only so that this would already have been taken care of, and he wouldn’t be asked such questions like ‘What do you want Sherlock’s grave to say?’ For now he kept it simple. Just Sherlock’s name and the dates of his birth and death. At least until he or their ( _his_ now, he supposes) parents come up with something more to add.

It was not a quiet affair, the funeral, with lots of people and Mycroft couldn’t decide if Sherlock would’ve loved it or hated it. He had always been such a curious blend of quiet recluse, and attention craving drama queen. At least the people present had a semblance of respect for Sherlock, and not a single reporter got through those gates. (Neither did their parents, but Mummy was too beside herself to handle a crowd right now. Mycroft promised to bring them to the grave –privately- later on.)

Mrs. Hudson was beside herself as well, crying louder than anyone there. She stood next to John Watson, who sat stony faced and staring into nothingness. Mycroft recognized the look; compartmentalizing, separating himself from reality, hoping that if he pretended it didn’t hurt then it wouldn’t.

But John cared too much. Everyone knew it would never work.

Half of NSY was there, which surprised a great many people. A few cops who didn’t believe the slander stood quietly at the gates, even going as far as deterring any stray nosy outsiders who got past Mycroft’s men. Philip Anderson stood off to the side, a look of pure guilt and despair on his face. The guilt, it was just _so evident_ on his face that it made even Mycroft’s stomach curl.

Lestrade and Donovan slinked in after everyone had already sat down. Guilt showed on Greg’s face with the red rimmed eyes and dark circles, and even though he barely managed a greeting to John, Mrs. Hudson, and Molly, there were still tears in his eyes.

Donovan attempted a small greeting –and perhaps an apology- as well, but a bone chilling look from Molly sent her nearly cowering behind Lestrade. Mycroft was taken aback. It was such a look of anger and blame, and Sergeant Donovan actually wilted under that stare. Whatever the reason for that stare, it was apparent that John Watson fully supported it. Turning his gaze over to the other man, Mycroft was not all that surprised to see an exact matching glare on the soldier's face, but was curious to see the supporting hand on Molly's shoulder.

‘There must be a story behind that,’ Mycroft thought, weighing whether or not he should invest in finding out.

As the funeral service continued on, what most intrigued him most was that Miss Hooper did not shed a single tear. (Neither did John, but that was to be expected as Dr. Watson always had a particular knack of remaining stony faced in the worst scenarios.)

Once it was all over, and most everyone went home, Mycroft had Anthea stop the good pathologist before she could hail a taxi. "What do you want, Mycroft?" Molly asked tiredly when he approached her, not in the least bit surprised by being stopped by Anthea (most times, the two women tended to get along). "I just want to leave here and maybe go get a pint."

"You only drink wine," he corrected her, not even bothering to explain how he knew her drink preferences –or that her favorite was sauvignon- and directed his patent Holmes stare at her. "In fact, I’d like if you gave me a straight answer," he demanded," about Sherlock."

There! So quick, he might’ve missed it otherwise, but there was a flash of panic in her eyes. Covered quickly by feigned confusion. "What about Sherlock?" she echoed. Oh she was good, he thought, Sherlock must’ve taught her well. But not well enough.

"I think we both know what about, Miss Hooper," he leveled with her," I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: my brother trusted you, possibly in more ways than most people assume."

"Sherlock was no idiot, he knew Moriarty, he knew his endgame," he continued, delighting in the growing panic in Molly’s eyes," It might’ve taken him a while, but I’m sure he figured out that Moriarty meant to kill him. And John tells me that the night before he died, Sherlock ran off somewhere and wasn’t found til the next morning…" one of his brows rose meaningfully," –at St. Bart’s."

"He went to _you_ , didn’t he?"

God, her acting was perfect. Her jaw dropped –just so- and she started stammering words out, sounding both embarrassed and surprised. ‘Taught her well indeed,’ he commended Sherlock.

"Sherlock is not a sentimental person," he cut her stammering off," He is above such things. So I doubt he went to you for such… transport reasons. So that leaves the question of, why? He needed your help, but how, if he knew he was going to die?"

"What did you help my brother do, Miss Hooper?"

Good. Perfect. Her face paled, even more so when he pulled out his phone. "I have men on their way to your flat as we speak," he announced," What will they find, I wonder. Perhaps you have a new flatmate they will discover. Perhaps someone familiar?"

Right on time, his phone chimed, signaling message received. Mycroft’s thumb hovered over the button to open it. "Last chance, Molly," he warned her," Tell me the truth."

"Mycroft," she whispered, her voice no more than a hoarse cry as she fought back the tears. Even then, she vehemently shook her head," I can’t… I can’t…"

His thumb pressed the button.

 _ **'Empty**_.'

 _Oh_ … and just like that, all the air left Mycroft’s lungs, all of his confidence and surety leaving his body. He felt 2 inches tall. Just like that… ‘Empty’; one word and all hopes Mycroft had of his little brother being not dead faded away.

Sherlock was dead. His death had not been faked, he really did jump off that roof, and his body really had been burned. It hadn’t been one big hoax, co-led by Molly Hooper. Mycroft glanced back at her, and suddenly felt even smaller.

Oh god… Sherlock _had_ gone to her on his last night on Earth. He’d gone to her for supposedly sentimental reasons, and here his brother was telling her that Sherlock would never do such a thing. And she had let him say such a horrible thing.

What in the world had Sherlock done to find such a woman?

"Apologies," Mycroft nodded curtly, shutting his phone with a snap," I was mistaken. I’ll… leave you to your day." Then he made to walk away.

"Mycroft, wait!" she called out, causing him to pause misstep. But he did not turn around. "Can…can I ask a favor?" she asked," Can I… have his violin? To remember him by?"

Oh Molly Hooper, if only she knew that if she asked for 221B, he would’ve let her have it. No other woman –except their mother, of course- had ever loved Sherlock as much as she did, and if Mycroft’s suspicions were to be believed, to also be loved by Sherlock. If the elder –now only- Holmes brother were to place what was left of Sherlock’s possessions in her hands, he would do so gratefully. For who else would take such care of them? Respect the memory that was Sherlock, in memory of the man she loved?

But he did not tell her this. Instead he just said," Yes," and continued walking.

……

Three weeks later, Mycroft got an urge. A most ridiculous thing, something he’d never before succumbed to, his whims and such. But nonetheless, it came and would not leave him. He wanted to see how Sherlock’s old friends were getting along. Were they… coping? Were they _not_ coping?

So first he checked on Mrs. Hudson and John. The good doctor was still living in 221B Baker Street, but Mycroft guessed he’d soon start looking for a new place. Something with less memories.

Lestrade just narrowly missed probation, but was still in trouble with the Chief Superintendent. He’d have to remedy that, Mycroft thought and made a mental note of it.

Next he traveled to St. Bart’s, where he found Molly Hooper _had_ been put on unpaid suspension, probation. Apparently, the Board thought she’d helped Sherlock falsify some of his crime solving. And while they discussed whether or not to sack her, she was suspended and sent home. (Mycroft immediately put Anthea on the job –who took to it like a bulldog- to sort it all out. With any luck, and knowing Anthea, Miss Hooper would be back in her morgue within the week.)

For now, Mycroft made the journey to Molly’s flat. Sherlock would never forgive him if he failed to ensure that the woman Sherlock –possibly, perhaps, might have- loved was taken care of. So here he was, shaking raindrops off his umbrella just inside the foyer.

That’s when he heard it. Music. The soft notes of a horsehair bow gliding over violin strings, playing low and slow. Mycroft involuntarily felt his throat seize up. No, it must be Molly, it had to be her. (Never mind the fact that he _knew_ she can only play the piano.)

Slowly, tentatively, Mycroft climbed the stairs leading to her flat, listening to the music play. It was not a piece he recognized, which only meant it was an original. Never mind her not knowing how to play violin, Molly didn’t _compose_ …

Just as he reached the top of the landing, the music faded to a halt. "Oh, that was lovely," he heard Miss Hooper say.

Then a familiar voice –an _impossible_ voice- answered her," You think so? I only wrote it because I was bored."

Mycroft reached out (his hands were _not_ trembling!) and gripped the doorknob. Unlocked, how very dangerous, he thought briefly before he pushed the door wide open.

…and promptly dropped his umbrella.

Molly Hooper sat comfortably in her plush chair, now sitting up straight upon the door opening. Standing in front of her, violin in one hand and bow in the other…

…was Sherlock Holmes.

"Hello, brother mine," Sherlock smiled.


End file.
